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He throttled back and aimed the bow at the pass, abruptly aware she was a very long boat. For all his Ican-drive-anything-that-floats claim when the Triad asked if he could handle it, the fact was that Tin Hau was practically a ship—three times the length of Veronica and fifteen times her bulk. With only one engine it would take a fine touch on the helm to squeeze through the breakwater without crunching the rocks.

  He lined up the bow and looked back to check the stern. Someone was standing on the schooner's foredeck shaking his fist, a boatboy rudely awakened. Another boatboy appeared on the motor cruiser that Tin Hau had lain alongside. He watched as Stone eased the big yacht toward the pass and then he noticed the lines Stone had cast into the water.

  Stone couldn't tell what he did next because he was too busy trying to steer the ungainly hull. Rudder hard over, he started to power into the left turn the boat was refusing to make. But just then a cotton billow of fog rushed across his bow from the east. He throttled back instead, hoping that the wind gust would push the bow around for him, For several long seconds the bow hung in stasis. Then it swung toward the pass. He gave the engine some power, and the yacht lumbered between the rocks and into the harbor.

  He lined her up on a compass course to the east and looked back. Already the typhoon shelter was a barely visible soft hint of light. And when he looked again—after setting the radar to short range and fiddling the gain knob—the glow astern had vanished. Ahead was fog, black as the inside of a barrel.

  The radar was the latest commercial Furuno, a unit he would have killed for on Veronica, with all the bells and whistles and a big full-color monitor that displayed the shoreline, and the vessels in the harbor with the startling clarity of a big-screen movie.

  The way ahead was clear. He pushed the throttle forward. The big yacht squatted heavily in her stern and gradually picked up speed. It took her two long miles to peak at fourteen knots—two better than her boatboys had predicted. Stone shoved harder on the throttle, but she had reached her limit. Without her second engine, the hull would not lift onto a plane.

  He engaged the autopilot and coaxed it to compensate for the off-center thrust of the single engine. Then he surveyed the radar screen for obstructions ahead and pursuit behind. He set the ARPA plotting aid to track two vessels: a slow-moving, ship-sized target a half mile ahead and a swift echo behind he suspected was the patrol boat heading north toward Kowloon. He nudged the ARPA cursor over each to monitor their direction and speed and instructed the computer to warn him if either changed course.

  Suddenly Ronald spoke on the scrambled VHF radio, his voice loud and clear. "Hey, Doc. Why you no go fast?"

  "I 'no go fast,' you son of a bitch, because you didn't tell me they had an engine down."

  "Down?"

  "They're changing an oil pump."

  "That's okay, man. No sweat. We got you on the radar. You home free."

  "Bullshit!" It was still a long thirteen miles to the PRC border. And the worst five were coming up—narrow channels and crowded waters.

  A diamond-shaped signal winked on the radar screen. The ARPA was warning him that the police boat, which had been heading toward Kowloon, had changed course. He radioed Ronald: "I think water cops got me on their radar."

  "No sweat. I jam 'em."

  Stone's radar screen turned a bright shade of red. On the radio, he could hear Ronald laughing. "He's blind. He's blind."

  - "So am I," Stone radioed back. "Turn the damned thing off. I've got a ship dead ahead."

  The Triad cut the electronic countermeasure signal. Stone's radar screen flickered, and suddenly the harbor was back, showing the shores of the Tathong Channel on either side, a ship an eighth of a mile ahead. Four miles astern, the police boat altered course and zeroed in on him like a laser.

  He radioed Ronald to jam their radar again, but he didn't answer, and the police boat kept coming. "Ronald."

  No response.

  Stone steered for the ship.

  Then he locked the helm and stepped out the narrow wing deck to eyeball it. The wet wind tore at him, stinking of bunker fuel. He was staring into the fog when he sensed bulk overhead and saw a freighter towering over him as the yacht tore along her side.

  He took the helm again, edged away, then slipped in behind her stem as he and the ship passed in opposite directions.

  Katherine spoke and he jumped. He hadn't heard her come up and had no idea how long she'd been standing behind him in the dark.

  "How are we doing?"

  "Fog's so thick the cops can't see without radar. I just put a big ship between us. They won't be able to track us for a minute."

  "Ronald told me he had all these high-tech electronics."

  "Ronald's deeper in cyberspace than reality. Another mile and we can swing east again.

  Get the boys to the accommodations hatch. Have a look, make sure the dinghy's still attached. Take this handset. Give me a yell when you're ready. I'll stop the boat so you can put them over the side."

  "Why bother?"

  "My problems—and yours—aren't their fault."

  Four minutes later, when he was ready to turn between Joss House Bay and Tung Lung Island, he tried again to radio Ronald to jam the radar. No response. "Off!" he yelled, but the picture on the radar screen remained intact. As the distance grew between them, the ship wouldn't screen him from the police radar.

  He throttled back and ran below. Katherine—who he had half feared would murder the two men—had her hands full, trying to unlock their handcuffs and still control them.

  Miraculously, the dinghy, which he had snubbed close, was still attached, banging alongside as the yacht made a knot or two against the tide.

  "Where's the emergency locker?" he asked the boatboy.

  Behind a teak panel were life raft canisters, flashlights, wooden plugs, life preservers, space blankets, and food and water. Stone yanked a raft canister from the locker and threw it out the door. The white cylinder popped open when it hit the water and the bright orange raft inflated.

  He threw the second raft after it.

  Then, while Katherine covered Tin Hau's boatboys with the gun, he opened two of the space blankets and wrapped the shiny foil squares around their shoulders and ordered them into the dinghy. They went quickly, relief visible on their faces.

  Stone released the painter with a quick jerk and cast it into the dinghy as the little boat fell behind. Then he latched the door and raced up to the bridge, with Katherine running after him. "Wha'd you throw all that junk for?"

  "Same reason I gave the boys blankets."

  On the bridge, he jammed the throttle full forward and spun the helm. The yacht dipped its stern and careened toward the east, leaving behind three bright echoes on the radar screen—the two life rafts and the dinghy carrying the Tanka boatboys wrapped in reflective blankets.

  "By the time the cops sort out who's who and pick up the boatboys, I'm hoping to hell we'

  ll be on the other side of Tung Lung."

  At fourteen knots, it took four minutes to slip between the island and the bright lights of Joss House Bay. Ten minutes later, Stone was steering through a cluster of small islands and beginning to believe he had pulled it off. Almost to the open sea.

  "What are all these?" Katherine asked, leaning over his shoulder to point to a group of new echoes that suddenly appeared in the south. The radar hadn't distinguished them at first from the bright target of Waglan Light. Stone hit the Acquisition button again and set the cursor to track them. It took the ARPA two minutes to develop a vector on the new targets. They were traveling at forty knots on an intercepting course.

  Stone radioed Ronald to shut down their radar. No response. He tried again and again.

  "What's the matter?"

  "Ronald's still lost."

  "What are you going to do?"

  Stone switched on the port engine. It might start in its present condition, but it wouldn't run long. The fuel alarm sounded. He hit the starter. The diesel fired up instantly. He shoved
the throttle wide open.

  Tin Hau surged as if struck from behind.

  Katherine pointed at the oil pressure gauge. The needle was pegged at zero.

  "The new owner is going to need a new engine." "How long can it run without oil?"

  "Pray for five minutes."

  The knot meter flashed as the broad hull rose on a fast plane, pounding the tops of the swells, shaking .. the yacht and heaving spray into the fog. Twenty . . twenty-five . . .

  thirty-five knots.

  But the port engine temperature gauge was climbing relentlessly into the red. An alarm shrilled. The engine stopped as suddenly as it had started. The yacht plowed down into the water, losing speed so abruptly that Stone and the woman were thrown against the control console.

  "Fuel cutoff to protect the engine. Son of a bitch!"

  Katherine pulled her pistol from her bag and headed for the door.

  "What are you doing?"

  "I'll hold them off."

  "Forget it," said Stone. He had once glimpsed inside the arms locker of a Hong Kong water patrol, which had hailed Veronica for a drug check. Remington shotguns and automatic rifles. "Put it away," he told her. "You're outgunned."

  "I'm not going to a Chinese prison." She cocked her weapon and pushed through the door.

  Stone thumbed the radio again. "Ronald? Ronald?"

  The radar display filled with blinking diamond light symbols as the pursuit boats came into the threat zone. Three blinking diamonds astern. And now, suddenly, two ahead on a converging course.

  "THEY'RE COMING FROM BOTH SIDES," HE YELLED TO KATH-

  erine. "Come on, we'll swim for it."

  The wind tore her voice from the darkness overhead. "Fuck you."

  Stone raced below to the accommodations door, pulled a life jacket out of the emergency locker, strapped it on, doused the light, and opened the door on the water rushing three feet below the sill. The longer he waited to jump, the closer the yacht would bring him to the coast, but the more likely the patrol boats would spot him in the water.

  A form took sudden hard shape alongside and a spotlight pinned him in the doorway. He gathered his legs to jump.

  "Follow me!" Ronald's amplified voice echoed over the water. "Follow me!"

  A fast motor cutter flying the lighted flag of the People's Liberation Army pulled alongside. The Triad himself was standing in the light, waving as the wind tore at his white suit and whipped his tie over his shoulder.

  Stone ran back up to the helm. The cutter tucked in under his bow and altered course.

  Stone turned with him, then checked the radar. A half dozen winking diamonds began to drop back.

  Katherine bounded through the door. "What happened?"

  "That's Ronald ahead of us with his PLA pals. And those"—pointing at the screen—"are PLA gunboats informing some very pissed-off cops that it's finders keepers."

  "Now what?"

  "Now we'll see if Ronald is an honorable gangster."

  In the lee of the San-Men Islands, Ronald radioed Stone to stop the yacht and turn on her floodlights. The cutter's own lights illuminated heavy machine guns on the bow and wheelhouse. Seamen secured the two vessels gunnel to gunnel. Stone watched from the bridge as Ronald was helped between them. He trotted up the companionway, beaming.

  "Good job, sailorman!" He walked around the bridge, peering at the instruments, and clapped his hands proudly on the helm. "Good job."

  Stone nodded toward Katherine. "Your young lady was a big help."

  "Mr. Chang very grateful."

  Out of the fog, a thirty-foot wooden fishing junk approached the pool of light cast by the vessels and eased, alongside the gunboat. "Okay, sailorman. Here comes your ride."

  Stone put on his backpack.

  "What about me?" asked Katherine.

  "You stay."

  "What?"

  Ronald swept his hand in a broad gesture of appreciation for the lavish yacht. "Mr.

  Chang say beautiful boat, beautiful hostess."

  "Wait a minute. You're telling me I have to go to the Mainland?"

  "Package deal. New owner gets deluxe package." "I don't want to go to the Mainland."

  "No one ask you."

  Katherine turned to Stone. "This isn't fair. I delivered. Tell him I did my job."

  "She did," said Stone. "I couldn't have done it without her."

  Ronald returned a cold smile. "Sailorman, I go to big trouble for you. Shanghai. Papers.

  Hotel. Guide. Everything for your gas ship."

  "All I'm saying is give her a break."

  "You want to go Shanghai? Or you knight in shiny armor?"

  "You wouldn't have your boat without her."

  Ronald paused, pretending to consider that argument. He said, "Okay, shiny knight. You deliver yacht," and Stone realized a beat too late that he'd been set up. The Triad wanted another service and had counted on the foolish American to back himself into it.

  "To Shanghai?"

  "Those guys," Ronald explained, nodding at the PLA boats, "maybe they steal yacht from me and Mr. Chang. We trust you more."

  "You said you'd put me on a steamer."

  "Keep hostess. Turn on autopilot. Eight hundred miles fuck-fuck."

  "Not on one engine."

  Ronald leaned out the door and streamed a torrent of Cantonese. Four men and a boy scrambled aboard and trooped down to the engine room. "They fix."

  "There's a gasket missing."

  The Triad laughed. "Mainland mechanics poor people. Fix anything. Make new gasket from helper's skin." "What about Shanghai Customs?"

  "Yangtze fish boat bring new papers offshore." "You coming too?"

  "No way. Patrols catch, cut balls off. Hers too. Deal?" Stone looked at Katherine, who said, "Beats his last offer."

  "Katherine goes home from Shanghai?"

  "First class," Ronald promised. "And you use yacht to find gas ship."

  "In Shanghai? This thing'll stand out like a Maserati."

  Ronald shrugged. "Any boat you want. But no screwup, no mind change. Mr. Chang get pissed, he send choppers cut my hands off. Before he get me, I get you, sailorman. I take big chance on you."

  Pumped up by the run from Hong Kong, Stone suddenly saw that he had cast his lot with a juggler who had too many balls in the air.

  "You want the gas ship, but you couldn't talk Chang into it. All he wanted was this boat."

  Ronald got an angry glint in his eye. "Mr. Chang grateful for ship of gas."

  "Bull. He knows he's thin on the ground in Shanghai. Probably afraid you'll start a turf war with the locals."

  The gangster gazed back impassively, the glint of anger less extinguished than concealed. Stone shut up. He knew he was right, but it was too late to change allies on the stolen yacht. "You got to leave me a mechanic. If she breaks down in the Taiwan Strait, we're both screwed."

  "Okay, okay, I give you mechanic."

  Katherine had caught Stone's mood. "Make it two in case we need more skin."

  Ronald crossed the distance between them in a single liquid step and slapped Katherine so hard she staggered. She held her face, saw blood on her hand, and whipped the machine pistol out of her bag.

  Ronald stared contemptuously into the barrel. "You shoot Triad?"

  Stone, regretting already he had stuck his neck out, stepped between them. "Put it away."

  "I'm going to kill the fucker."

  "You owe me."

  "Both owe me," said Ronald. "No forget."

  Tin Hau's Sea Talk system integrated GPS, radar, depth finder, and ARPA, which made navigation pretty much a matter of feeding in a course and turning on the autopilot.

  Stone trusted none of it, not in coastal waters heavily fished by wooden trawlers.

  He slung a hammock in the bridge house. But soon after he showed Katherine how to use the system, he came to trust her judgment and slept relatively peacefully when it was her turn to stand watch.

  They cleared up Ronald's eight-hundred-mile
"fuck-fuck" the first night when Katherine said, "I owe you. But don't think I want it."

  "Thanks, but I'll pass," said Stone. "I got worse problems."

  It had been eight days since the ship had taken Sarah and Ronnie. Ample time to steam twice the distance to Shanghai. They could be in any of fifty ports. Or drowned in fifty fathoms.

  "NOT EXACTLY SHANGHAI, IS IT, Doc?" MR. JACK CALLED

  mockingly from the bed. His voice was stronger, his New York accent sharper.

  Sarah was at the porthole, watching the tugs.

  Belching steam and coal smoke, they were working the ship alongside a pier in a cold, driving rain. But instead of the 1920s European skyline of Shanghai's Bund, all she could see was gray marsh and mud flats that stretched to the horizon, dwarfing an electric power station that could have been any coastal generating plant in the world.

  The pier extended a half mile into an otherwise empty bay. Across the marsh, the flat sweep of the land was briefly interrupted by four tall chimneys. At their feet crouched the turbine house, a building of mud-colored brick. Pylons marched inland, while a pipeline connected the plant to the domed liquid natural gas storage tanks that huddled like gigantic igloos along the shore.

  The old man's mind was labyrinthine, as complex as the mare's nest of piping that connected the gas manifolds on the pierhead to the storage tanks. But this much Sarah had learned since her patient had regained his faculties: he said nothing without a purpose; every question was a test.

  And so she answered, "I've never seen Shanghai."

  In fact, thanks to Ronnie's GPS, she knew their position to the degree, minute, and second. If her memory of Shanghai's coordinates was correct, then they were fairly close, perhaps an inlet of the Huangpu River or along a stretch of Hang-chou Bay. Surely the power pylons marching off to the northeast served a city.

  The mud flats could be on the Yangtze River a bit north or Ch'ung-Ming Island in its delta or the city of Hangchou south and west. The Dallas Belle's chart room would hold the answer, she supposed, staring gloomily out the rain-streaked glass.

  She felt herself sliding deeper and deeper into depression, drugged by it, unable to think clearly. The long days and nights of captivity had been blending together ever since the tugs had picked up the drifting ship.